Diplomat's Son
by EspressoShot
Summary: He's a part of your past that you can't outrun, and maybe you don't mind that. Mild slash. Oneshot.


_It's not right,  
__But it's now or never.  
__And if I wait  
__Could I ever forgive myself?_

You know you were a damn fool for thinking you could leave your past behind while staying in Tulsa. You should've driven off toward California, or Maine, or Canada without ever looking back. Hell, even Stillwater or Norman would have been something. But living in the house with the hippies and avoiding your high school friends seemed good enough. It worked for an entire year. But you should've known your past would catch up with you. You should've known it would all come crashing down.

It's not even an English class, but a math class, that you see him in. It's one of those huge lecture hall classes that all the different majors and different ages are forced into in order to graduate. You're sitting in an aisle seat toward the back, looking at the door, when he walks in. You're too shocked to avert your eyes. He sees you. You lock eyes, and he looks as surprised as you feel. Then he smiles, nods, and starts toward you. He takes the seat next to yours.

"Wasn't expecting to see a familiar face here," he says.

"Me neither," you reply. You thought you'd probably see someone you knew here. Just not _him_. "How you been?"

He laughs. "I'm here. How do you think I've been?"

You snort. He's just said a mouthful. "Same as me, I recon."

The professor appears out of nowhere and starts talking while the TAs pass out copies of the class syllabus. You try to pay attention to him, but everything he's saying is boring and also already written in the syllabus. It's not like you could hear anything over your pounding heart, anyway. You glance over at him a couple of times during the lecture, and every time he's staring at you. He doesn't even try to look away. You don't know why you're blushing. You don't know why he is, either.

When class wraps up, the two of you walk out together and awkwardly start toward the building's main exit. You step outside, and he lights up a cigarette.

"You got anywhere else to be?" you ask.

He shakes his head. "This was my last class of the day."

It's only one o'clock, but you could use a drink.

"You wanna go get a beer?" you ask. Then you remember that he's quite a bit younger than you. "You got a fake? We can get coffee or somethin' if you don't."

"I got a fake," he says. "Where do you wanna' go?"

XXX

Mr. B's never was one to question IDs, but he really does look like he could be eighteen. Hell, he looks older than you, even. You absently stir you whiskey sour, and he takes a sip of his wine. You've been sitting in awkward silence ever since you got here.

"So, how's things?" you finally ask. It's not much different than what you asked him in class, but it's the first thing you think of.

He shrugs. "It was as good as it could be for a while there. Then one of my brothers, my favorite one, went off to Vietnam and he just disappeared. He hasn't come back. Army doesn't know where he is. They say we should assume he's dead, but I know he's out there somewhere. That's why I stayed. I wanna be here when he gets back."

He drains his wine glass. The wine was so dark it was almost black, and you're surprised he could down it so easy. He looks up at you and cocks an eyebrow.

"How're you?" he asks.

You sigh. You've felt empty since Bob died, and it's been a struggle to keep going on. But you can't tell him that. It was his best friend that killed him. You're sure that he's been feeling empty himself.

"Been better," you finally say. "Been worse."

The waitress brings him another glass of wine, and he takes a big gulp. Again, you're amazed at how he doesn't even flinch at the bitterness.

"Haven't we all?"

XXX

He sits next to you again on Wednesday, the day of the next class meeting. He doesn't pay a bit of attention, choosing instead to read and annotate a copy of _The Iliad_, and you know he must be in Dr. Elston's class just like you were a couple years ago. You should be reading your Shakespeare or working on your French homework. Hell, you should be listening to the lecture and taking notes, because math never was your thing. But, again, all you can do is stare at him for the whole fifty minutes.

On Friday, he walks with you to the beat up VW Bus that you share with everyone in the house. You're a bit embarrassed that he had to see the shitty car you drive, but he seems unfazed.

"You got plans this weekend?" you finally ask.

He drops his cigarette butt on the asphalt and grinds it out with his shoe. "Nope."

"There's gonna be a poetry reading at Downing's tonight. Y'know, that coffee shop on Main? It's Kerouac and Ginsberg. Wanna go?"

He blushes and looks down at his shoes. But he's also wearing a cute smile, and you can't help thinking about how much you want to kiss him, even though it makes you feel a little sick.

You're way too happy when he nods and says, "I'll meet you there."

XXX

The nights are getting chilly, and it's not helping him any that he hasn't been eating and has lost enough weight for you to notice. You take off your jacket and wrap it around his shoulders.

"He would've been twenty today," he says softly.

He's been crying all day. Not loud, wailing, ugly sobs, but constant soft sniffling, dabbing at his eyes, and a quivering lower lip that looks so damn kissable.

You cut class with him this morning, and after aimlessly walking around downtown, you took him back to the hippie house. He didn't object to the hug you gave him; he damn near melted into you. And later, sitting on the couch and listening to records, you'd dare to say the two of you cuddled.

Before you left to take a walk and watch the sun set, you locked yourself in the bathroom, turned on the shower, and put your fingers down your throat until you puked. You felt like you needed to after spending the whole day snuggling with another boy.

He sighs a long, shuddering sigh. "He's gotta be out there, right, Randy?"

You sigh. You don't have the heart to tell him that his brother is probably dead, and he should take the Army's advice and move on like his other brother did.

"You never know," you finally say.

"He's the only person who really got me," he says. "I really loved him. More than anyone else. More than my own parents."

"I get you," you say softly.

He looks at you, and the two of you lock eyes. You reach out and caress his cheek, the rough stubble like sandpaper under your fingers. He closes his eyes and leaves his mouth slightly open, like he's expecting something. You can't wait any more. Giving in to your deepest, darkest fantasy, you kiss him. You're pleased and disgusted when he kisses back.

Back at the house, it turns into a full-blown makeout once you make it to your bedroom. The taste of his tongue in your mouth and the feeling of his warm body under yours turns you on like no girl ever did, and for the rest of the night, you're able to suppress your disgust and just enjoy being with him in the way you've wanted for so long.

XXX

It goes on like this for a while. You sit next to each other in math class, taking turns doing the homework and cheating off each other during exams. On weekends, you go to your room in the hippie house or crawl into the back of the shared VW at the drive-in and fool around. He seems more comfortable with this than you, and it all feels so good. Your disgust starts slowly but surely melting away.

You both pass the math class with A's. You get each other the same copy of _Leaves of Grass _for Christmas, and you have the fleeting thought that he might be your soul mate.

XXX

In April, when the days are starting to warm up, he stops returning your calls. He doesn't meet you in the dining hall on campus, and he doesn't come by the hippie house. After three days, you decide to just show up at his front door.

He answers the front door wearing only a pair of ragged, bleach-stained sweatpants. His hair is a mess, his eyes are red and practically swollen shut, and he has a pimple forming on the tip of his nose. He'd never let anyone see him like this, and you know something must really be wrong.

He collapses against you and sobs into your neck. You awkwardly rub his back and try to comfort him in the most heterosexual way possible.

"They found him," he finally manages. "They raided a POW camp, and he was there."

A few more gasping sobs, and he says the words you somehow knew you'd hear all along. "He's dead."

XXX

You go with him to the funeral. To everyone else, you're just a good friend there to give moral support. The two of you don't even hug. But after the funeral, back at the hippie house, he lays next to you on your mattress, wrapped in your tight hug and sobbing inconsolably into your chest. He doesn't go home that night; he spends the night wrapped in your arms instead.

XXX

You were going to tell him that you loved him on his eighteenth birthday. But you came home from your job to a letter slid under your bedroom door.

He's gone. Left town. He doesn't say where or why or if he'll ever be back. All he says is that he's sorry, and he hopes you can forgive him.

It's signed with an "I love you".

* * *

SE Hinton owns The Outsiders. My _raison d'etre _Vampire Weekend owns Diplomat's Son.

I love reviews!


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